Not sure if I’m entering my mid-life crisis or if I just need to get more sleep.
Either way, I sometimes get the urge to do something crazy, like drive more than 9 miles over the speed limit or guzzle an energy drink. And sometimes I do those things, because hey, life is short.
Being 44 and recently divorced, now is as good a time as any for a mid-life crisis. I just don’t have any idea what it should be, because fast women and fast cars are both too expensive, not to mention overrated.
I did get my first tattoo a few weeks ago, which some might call crazy. Well, young people might call it crazy because they’d think I’m too old to get inked. I can’t say getting a single tat qualifies as a mid-life crisis; a whole sleeve of them, maybe.
I could take a big chunk of my vacation time and go on a trip by myself. Somewhere I’ve always wanted to go.
But, again, too expensive.
I suppose I could forego a mid-life crisis, but I feel like it’s a rite of passage, a season in one’s life that signifies the transition from young, spry and jaded to old, creaky and jaded.
Given my budget’s limitations, I guess I’ll need to get creative. I could buy a Lizzo album or go shopping at Spencer’s or get my tongue pierced.
Problem is, I have zero desire to do any of those things.
Perhaps I could pick up a new hobby, such as parkour. That doesn’t require any money – well, except for the inevitable hospital bills.
Or maybe I should alter my appearance by, say, getting dreadlocks. Haha, just kidding, white guys should never, under any circumstances, wear dreadlocks. They look stupid.
I mean, I once got frosted tips in my 20s, and that experience taught me to be happy with the hair God gave me.
Mid-life crises are all about trying to relive one’s youth, or to live the youth one always wanted. I was never a cool kid, so I think I’ll update my vocabulary so as to be more relatable to the younger generations.
“Yo, bruh, that new Lizzo joint slaps, anyone hatin’ on it is canceled. Yeet.”
Surely this approach will win me new friends – young, hip friends who will be able to look past the gray hairs on my head and see the young, cool idiot within.
Because nothing says cool like a middle-aged white guy saying “yeet” all the time. What does that word mean? Beats me, ask my 15-year-old son.
I could finally write a novel, which I’ve been wanting to do for years. I’ve taken four or five cracks at it already and have found it to be an overwhelming task. I don’t have the patience or perseverance required to pull it off.
Heck, it’s taxing enough writing 500-plus words for this column.
Poetry is more my speed, and I’ve written lots of it. But nobody reads or buys poetry these days.
Maybe I should do something drastic, like change careers. Problem is, I don’t know how to do anything else. If I weren’t a writer, I’d be a hobo.
Oh hey, there’s an idea. If nothing else, I’d have plenty of time to sleep.